With Molly, I'm Safe and Sound
by Robin Janette
Summary: Song!fic using the lyrics to Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift featuring the Civil Wars. Post-Reichenbach; Sherlock come to Molly when he needs her most. Warnings: major character death, tragedy, darkness. Much pain and feels.


**This story was inspired by "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift featuring the Civil Wars from the Hunger Games Soundtrack. If you haven't listened to the Civil Wars or Safe and Sound, you should. They're both awesome! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Zilch. Nada.**

* * *

Molly heard someone crash, hard, against her door. Running, she opened it, and Sherlock Holmes tumbled in. Blood was everywhere; Sherlock was barely conscious. Molly grabbed her med kit, injecting Sherlock with a painkiller while crying, "Stay with me, Sherlock. Stay with me." Molly managed to drag Sherlock into the flat and close the door, careful not to step in the blood Sherlock left behind like slime after a slug. Molly evaluated Sherlock's wounds, a cut on his forehead, a few scattered gashes, and a knife wound in his side with the practiced eye of a doctor. Before her father's death and her switch to pathology, Molly had been studying medicine for the living. This was nothing she couldn't handle. Molly stripped his shirt off as her hand replaced his on the wound and applied pressure; Sherlock had lost consciousness. With a practiced hand, she cleaned and sewed up Sherlock's wounds. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had come to her bleeding, but not this bad.

* * *

Sherlock drifted through the pain, sometimes conscious, sometimes not, but all while Molly worked on him, her face was in his mind. Her soft features, framed by light brown hair he loved to see down. He heard her voice, "Stay with me." It brought relief as the painkillers took effect. He knew he was safe. He knew he was in capable hands. All he wanted to do was stay with her.

* * *

Molly leaned back from her work. For the third time, Sherlock remained alive because of her. Molly packed up her med kit, mentally compiling a list of things to steal from Barts to replenish what she'd had to use. Sherlock had fallen into an uneasy sleep toward the end, when she dressed his less-serious wounds. Molly could see how Sherlock had aged in the past years. The circles under his eyes were very pronounced, and his body was too lean to possibly be healthy. Despite that, he still was beautiful, relaxed as he was in sleep. This had been a close one; if she had been any later, or the wound had been infected, there was no doubt in Molly's mind as to what would have happened. Molly set to work cleaning up the blood to keep her mind off those kinds of thoughts.

* * *

Sherlock woke up a few hours later as the painkillers were beginning to wear off. Molly was slumped on the couch; obviously afraid to leave him alone. He groaned, quietly, but it was enough to wake Molly up. She padded over to him. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock weakly smiled. "Much better, thanks to you."

Molly grabbed a blanket and sheets, but redressed his knife wound before helping him onto the couch. Another dose of pain meds, and Sherlock began to slip back into sleep.

* * *

As soon as Molly saw Sherlock's eyes droop and his breathing slow, Molly padded into her kitchen. She didn't know if she could take much more of this. Waiting for him to come for months on end, and then when he did, he was always injured. Tears slid silently down Molly's cheeks as she thought that this war with Moriarty was killing him. Molly did her best not to think of her greatest fear; one day, she'd lift the sheet off a John Doe, and it would be Sherlock lying on her slab. Molly wiped away her tears after a while. She had to be strong. For Sherlock.

The next day, Molly called in sick to work so she could stay with Sherlock. He was very quiet this time. Usually he was spouting off about different agents and plans while complaining that he couldn't get back to the fight, but this time, Sherlock seemed content just to sit in silence, though not in his mind palace. Molly curled up in her chair and neither of them paid much attention to the crappy shows on the television. Molly was much more comfortable in Sherlock's presence now; she finally felt like she could be herself around him, not a schoolgirl with a crush. Even her stammer had gone.

* * *

Sherlock felt safe for the first time in months. No one could know about Molly; it was the one place on earth that was truly a sanctuary. He was growing tired of the endless nights, the running, the fighting. The endless parade of criminals he had sworn to bring down. At the beginning, he had been passionate, sure of his cause. Now the only thing keeping Sherlock going was cold fury and determination. Sherlock could feel the months weighing on him, only abating when he came home to Molly. Even that couldn't last; Sherlock had to make the world safe, safe for John, safe for Mrs. Hudson, save for Molly. Even if Sherlock did nothing else, he had to do this. For her.

* * *

Over the next few days, Molly went back to work, leaving Sherlock alone in her flat. Like before, she was afraid every time she came home that Sherlock would be gone, abducted by Moriarty and out of her reach. Only seeing his face would relieve her terror. Her nightmares didn't stop though; two different times Sherlock had to wake Molly up when she screamed in her sleep, running from the corpse, his corpse. His living face helped calm her much faster than normal, when she had no way of knowing if her dream was fantasy or a vision. She could see in Sherlock's eyes that he knew the dreams were about him, see the pain behind them. Her dreams were the only thing she couldn't hide.

* * *

Sherlock was dreading going back to the fight. It wasn't fair; everyone else in the world could be happy, and loved, and safe, except him. He never knew if Molly was safe; if she had been taken and used against him. Sherlock hated how his wounds seemed to be healing, wishing not for pain, but for more time with Molly. When he was gone, he dreamed of being happy and safe in Molly's arms. He could control his dreams even less than his feelings. Sherlock couldn't tell Molly how he felt; it would break her. If he didn't come home, he didn't want her to suffer like that. A thousand times worse than what she suffered now, when she woke up screaming in the night, sobbing. Her eyes were almost as tired and worn as his. Sherlock couldn't hurt her, even if he hurt himself.

* * *

Molly saw Sherlock's wounds healing, and estimated he'd be gone in a few days. She wished he didn't have to go, wasn't forced to fight a one-man war, living in disgrace and shame. Molly prayed for peace, prayed to any god who'd listen. Keep him safe. Keep him whole. Bring him back to me.

* * *

The day had come. Sherlock wore his disguise, had bleached his hair, straightened his curls. He didn't have to tell Molly, it was obvious what he was doing. Sherlock could see Molly breaking at the seams. Sherlock walked to Molly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Now she looked stunned by his act. "I promise to come back. When this mess is all over. I will come back to you."

Tears slid down Molly's cheeks once more. "I'll be waiting."

Sherlock turned and walked out of her flat. Molly started to sob, and collapsed on the floor. She couldn't take much more than this.

* * *

Sherlock nearly cried out from the pain of the bullet wound in his chest. Only fear of being heard by the enemy kept him silent. Sherlock knew that he couldn't get to Molly this time. She couldn't save him. Sherlock regretted just two things: failing in his mission, and never telling Molly how he felt. His Molly, his protecting, healing angel.

Sherlock slipped into darkness, the escape from pain nearly intoxicating. No one could hurt him now.

* * *

Molly picked up the paperwork for the John Doe that had come in a few hours ago. Bullet wound to the chest; pretty straightforward cause of death. Molly got together her tools for the autopsy. She lifted the sheet on the corpse, and cried out as she saw the face. His face. The hair was different, but no one could mistake that perfect face, as pale in death as in life. Molly broke down on the morgue floor, trapped in her own personal nightmare, one she would never wake up from. He would never come back to her.

He was safe now.


End file.
